Neville's Choice
by Neville's Girl
Summary: Neville goes to St. Mungo's ... please read! This is my first HP fic. Flame away, if you wish. Firefighters are standing by...
1. Default Chapter Title

Neville hated to go and visit his parents. His grandmother was inexorable, though,   
and three times a year, once on his birthday, once during the summer, and once during the   
Christmas holidays, he trudged to St. Mungo's, "doing your duty by your parents", his   
grandmother was fond of saying. Neville never really saw the point of going at all. It was   
always the same. He would sit uncomfortably in an armchair across from his parents, and   
slowly feel his heart twist in agony as they again showed absolutely no recognition of him.   
  
His mother was more lucid than his father, but that wasn't saying much. On a good   
day, she would sit calmly in her chair, clad in patched and faded lilac robes, because she   
refused to wear the hospital robes, chatting about how wonderful her son was, how cute,   
how full of promise, she never knew what happened that fateful day; she was still a young   
mother with a small child to care for. On a bad day, she would huddle in the chair, knees   
drawn up to her chin, rocking back and forth, sobbing for her baby. She'd slide off the chair   
then, checking to see if he was under there, and then frantically asking Neville if he knew   
where her baby was. Neville, tears welling in his eyes, a lump in his throat making him   
unable to speak, would shake his head. She would sit back down, head in hands, and sob   
uncontrollably.  
  
It was much more difficult to see his father. Once a strong and intelligent man,   
Frank Longbottom's paranoia exceeded that of Mad-Eye Moody's tenfold. He refused to   
wear robes, either hospital issue or otherwise, instead insisting on wearing Muggle jeans and   
a T-shirt. He made all his visitors, including his son, wear the same, saying, "That way, you   
can't hide a wand." Whenever Neville visited, his father would jump out of bed, apparently   
to greet him. Every time, Neville's heart would flutter with hope at the possibility, only to   
miserably disappointed by his father's usual gruff question: "Got anything in those pockets,   
boy?"  
  
One day, it all changed. On his 15th birthday, as he wearily sat down to attempt to visit with   
his mother, she jumped out of her chair and enveloped him in a hug, laughing and crying at   
the same time. "Neville! My baby! Oh, sweetie," she gasped, cupping his shocked face in her   
hands.  
  
"Mum? MUM?!? You recognize me!" Neville began laughing with joy. He picked her   
up and twirled her around. He couldn't believe it. His fondest wish was coming true.  
  
"Oof! That's enough, dear," she exclaimed. "Of course I recognize you. You look   
just like your father. Put me down, and let's talk. I don't know how long this clarity will last."   
  
Neville did as she asked, and they sat down, tears still running down both their   
cheeks. "Tell me everything. Simply everything," she said eagerly. "After all, I've got 14 years   
of catching up to do."  
  
Neville, feeling like it was all a dream, and praying that if it was, that he'd never wake   
from it, obeyed her. He told her of the family thinking he was a Squib until age 8, then being   
accepted into Hogwarts, and how everyone, including himself, thought he was a screw-up,   
and how hard it was to come and see them in the hospital, how his only good subject was   
Herbology, how great his friends were, and how he was scared of Snape. During his   
monologue, his mother moved closer and closer, until finally, when he got to the part where   
he told her of Snape, she hugged him tightly. Overwhelmed by this simple but unfamiliar   
affection, Neville began to cry again. "I'm so sorry, Mum. I've let you and Dad down," he   
muttered over and over.   
  
"Nonsense, dear," she murmured. "You've done no such thing. You're a wonderful   
lad, and if you're father was here, I'm sure he'd say the same."  
  
"He'd say what?" asked a deep voice.   
  
"Frank!" exclaimed his wife. She and Neville stood up, and stared at the man who   
had just stepped into the room. He didn't look like the Frank Longbottom Neville was used   
to. His hair was neatly brushed, and he was clad in hospital robes, and he had a teary smile   
of joy on his face. "Neville! How are you, boy?" he asked, running over to a shocked Neville   
and hugging him fiercely. "My God, it's so good to see you!"  
  
Neville stood frozen in place while his father was weeping openly on his shoulder.   
He couldn't believe it. His parents, sane? Why? Who had done this? As the questions   
multiplied and swirled around his confused brain, he decided to just accept it, and cherish it,   
for as long as he could. He wrapped his arms around his father, and squeezed for all he was   
worth. They were real, they were coherent, they loved him and believed in him. He felt like   
he could to that Petronus that Potter had talked of.   
  
A few hours later, Neville knew he had to leave. It was getting late, and he had a big   
Potions test the next day. After several hugs, kisses, and promises to return soon, he walked   
down the steps of St. Mungo's to wait for the Knight Bus. He was humming to himself,   
when a voice out of the darkness said, "How are your parents tonight, Longbottom?"  
  
Neville whirled around, wand ready (and shaking slightly), and tried to make his voice   
sound stronger as he asked, "Who's there?"  
  
A person stepped out into the light of a nearby streetlamp. Neville gasped. "You?"  
  
Voldemort laughed venomously. "Were they coherent tonight? Did they recognize   
you?"  
  
Neville's eyes narrowed as he asked, "What do you know about that?" His hand   
tightened on his wand.  
  
"My dear boy, I was the one who did it," Voldemort replied.  
  
"Why? What do you want from me?" questioned Neville. He looked around wildly   
for other people. The street was deserted.  
  
"I want you, Neville," whispered Voldemort. "Come, boy, put the wand down. You   
and I both know that you cannot possibly do any damage to me."  
  
Neville knew he was right. "Why me? I'm practically a Squib," he said as he lowered   
his wand arm.  
  
"No, you're not. You're as far from a Squib as possible," said Voldemort. "You are   
very powerful in primal magic - the magic of the earth ... plants, animals, the elements ...   
why, you're as powerful as that runt, Potter." His eyes gleamed hungrily. Neville shuddered.   
  
"So what?" he asked in what he hoped was a careless tone. "I bet lots of people are   
good at Herbology and stuff."  
  
"Not as good as you, Longbottom."  
  
Neville thought for a moment. "There has to be a trade-off," he said finally.  
  
Voldemort laughed coldly. "Clever boy. You help me, your parents are released from   
St. Mungo's, free to rejoin the population as normal people again. You refuse, and you, your   
parents, and your friends will all be killed. I give you twenty-four hours to make your   
decision." He abruptly apparated, leaving a shocked and thoughtful young wizard behind   
him.   
  
  
  



	2. Default Chapter Title

A/N: Thanks so much for all the nice comments! I'm sorry that I didn't get this up   
sooner, but my family went away for Thanksgiving, and I had no access to a computer!   
The usual disclaimer applies, as always. Enjoy!  
  
In later years, Neville could never tell how he made it back to Hogwarts that night.   
Voldemort's words filled his thoughts, until he had no room for anything else. The big   
Potions test tomorrow paled in comparison with the decision he had to make. He   
wandered numbly around, deep in thought, until he ran into something rather solid.   
Startled, he noticed that it was the portrait of the Fat Lady. I'm at Hogwarts? he thought   
dimly. He realized that he was exhausted. Too exhausted to reason out how he got back,   
anyway. He attributed his mysterious reappearance at Hogwarts to some sort of homing   
pigeon instinct. He wanted nothing more than to just crawl into bed and pretend that   
Voldemort had never offered him what he wanted most in the world - his parents, in   
exchange for the only thing he was proud of - his Herbology prowess. Was it a fair   
exchange? He rubbed his forehead sleepily, and said, "Floo Powder."   
  
The Fat Lady never moved. "C'mon," he pleaded. "Please let me in. I've had a long day."  
  
She smiled at him. "Sorry, Neville. You know the rules. No password, no entrance."  
  
He tried a few more times, all in vain. Just as he resigned himself to another night in front   
of the portrait, a friendly hand clapped him on the shoulder, and a cheery voice said,   
"Locked out again, Neville? What is that, the fifth time this week?" Neville turned to see   
Ron Weasley grinning at him.  
  
"The sixth," he replied sheepishly.   
  
"Dungbombs," Ron said to the picture. It promptly moved aside.  
  
"So, you up for a game of wizard chess?" Ron asked. "I know it's late, but I'm not   
sleepy. I scored 5 points better than Hermione on a Transfiguration quiz!" His blue eyes   
gleamed with excitement.  
  
Neville smiled weakly and tried to feign interest. "Oh, yeah? Good for you, Ron. I can't   
though. I'm tired, and I've still got to try to study for that ruddy Potions test."  
  
Ron's face fell slightly. "Oh. Well, alright, then. G'night." He wandered off in search of a   
partner.  
  
Neville slowly climbed the stairs to his room. As he turned the knob, he sent up a   
desperate prayer that he'd be alone so that he'd have some time to think. No such luck.   
Harry and Seamus were wide awake and talking excitedly about the latest Quidditch   
match against Slytherin. They briefly looked up from their animated discussion to   
acknowledge his presence, then continued with their conversation. Neville sighed as he   
climbed into bed. Didn't they even notice that there was something wrong? Of course   
not, he thought darkly. I'm just Neville. Neville the Forgetful. Neville the Screw-up.   
Neville the Chicken. He viciously pulled the curtains on his four-poster bed closed,   
muffling the sounds outside.   
  
The next morning at breakfast, Ron was still talking about his Transfiguration triumph.   
Neville rolled his eyes in disgust and played with his eggs a bit. He was too full of   
thoughts to be hungry. Should he consider Voldemort's offer? Were his parents worth it?   
He couldn't think with all the chatter going on at the Gryffindor table. Ron was saying,   
"And then, McGonagoll passed back the papers, and I heard Hermione give a gasp, and I   
knew ."   
  
Neville slammed his fist on the table. Silverware jumped. So did the people seated at the   
table. "For God's sake, Weasley, don't you ever shut up?" Neville snapped. He shoved   
his chair back and stormed from the room.   
  
"Wow," said Harry eloquently. "What's up with Neville?"  
  
"I dunno. He was acting funny last night, too. He's probably just nervous about Potions,"   
Ron said dismissively. "As I was saying, when we got the parchments back."  
  
Harry stood up abruptly and ran after Neville. Ron snorted. He looked around the table.   
Several pairs of hostile eyes met his. "You keep talking, Weasley, you're gonna regret   
it," Oliver Wood said around a mouthful of sausage.   
  
Ron suddenly found his hash browns incredibly fascinating.  
  
"Neville? Neville!! Wait up!" called Harry.  
  
Neville never even looked back or slowed down. Harry sprinted to catch up to him.   
"What's going on? Do you feel okay?" he managed to gasp out. Neville kept walking.  
  
"Did you hear me?" Harry asked, pulling on Neville's elbow.   
  
Neville whirled around. The information he had pent up for the past 18 hours rushed forth   
in a torrent that almost overwhelmed the unsuspecting Harry. "If you were given the   
choice between getting your parents back by doing something you think you might regret   
later, or having things stay the same - no parents, no love . what would you do?" he   
blurted out. It was a relief to have it out in the open.   
  
Harry was startled. "I don't know what I'd do," he said after some thought. "That's a   
tough choice. Maybe you should talk to Dumbledore or something."  
  
Neville felt his heart shrivel. Outwardly, he tried to act as though he wasn't miserably   
disappointed in Harry's proposed solution. He laughed scornfully. "I knew I shouldn't   
have talked to you. I knew you wouldn't understand." He began to walk away.  
  
"You stupid git," Harry whispered.  
  
Neville turned around in surprise. "What?"  
  
"How dare you? You're not the only one who wishes they had parents. At least your   
parents are alive. You've got hope. I've got nothing," Harry said, his green eyes   
narrowing in anger.  
  
Neville felt his own eyes narrow. "How do you know about my parents?" he asked   
suspiciously.   
  
Harry inwardly slapped himself. He tried to steer the discussion away from that particular   
topic. "Doesn't really matter to this conversation, does it?"  
  
Neville straightened up, squaring his shoulders. This was the first fight he'd ever been in,   
and he was enjoying the fact that the famous and talented Harry Potter was arguing with   
the accident-prone Neville Longbottom. The gap between them didn't exist anymore.   
They were equals while fighting. Knowing this, Neville said, "Yeah, Harry, it does."  
  
Harry was shocked. Neville, stand up to him? It happened so rarely that Harry   
immediately answered without thinking. "Well . I was doing some . er - research   
about Death Eaters, and - er - your parents' names came up. Look, Neville, I've never   
told anyone, and that should tell you that you can trust me."  
  
Neville ground his teeth in anger. He clenched his fists tightly. Harry wondered if he'd   
hit him. Instead, he whirled around and continued down the hallway. Harry stared after   
him.  
  
As he turned the corner, Neville heard a voice whispering, "Hey! Longbottom! Over   
here!" He turned to see Draco Malfoy beckoning to him. Surprised, he went over to see   
what he wanted. He put a hand on his wand, just in case.  
  
"I hear you've got a choice to make," Draco said. Except it wasn't Draco's voice.  
  
"Voldemort?" Neville whimpered.  
  
"Maybe you need some incentive," Draco (Voldemort) said thoughtfully. "More than   
your parents. I need something that'll tip the scales in my favour."  
  
Neville stared at him in horror. What would he do? After a minute or two, Draco spoke   
again.  
  
"Hermione Granger."  
  
"What?!?!?" exclaimed Neville.  
  
"You like that little Mudblood. I'll give her to you, Longbottom," Draco said, smiling   
evilly. "Now, go to class. And good luck on that test." He vanished, and Neville stumbled   
off to Potions.   
  
He took a deep breath as he walked into the dungeons. "Neville!" called an eager voice.   
He turned to see who it was. Hermione was waving her arms to get his attention. "Would   
you like to sit with me?" she asked, blushing furiously. "Ron was just leaving," she said   
as she not-so-subtly pushed him out of the chair.   
  
"Hey!" Ron yelled as he landed on the floor. Neville, grinning widely, stepped over him   
and took his place on the chair. Ron, still muttering, went to join Dean and Seamus at   
their table. Hermione smiled shyly, and squeezed his hand. Neville thought his face   
would split in half, he was smiling so much. Snape then walked by and put an end to all   
happiness by passing out the test.   
  
Neville had never done better on a Potions test. He finished in record time, and skipped   
out of the class. Draco (Voldemort) was leaning against the wall, waiting for him. "So?   
What is your decision, Longbottom?"  
  
"It hasn't been 24 hours!" Neville whined.   
  
Draco just looked at him. "Don't play with me. Yes or no?"   
  
A fine sweat broke out on Neville's round face. Taking a deep breath, he whispered,   
"Yes."   



	3. Default Chapter Title

A/N: Neville (sadly enough) belongs to JK Rowling, as do all the rest of the gang   
mentioned in this story. I doubt that she'd have them in this situation, though. Anyhoo, if   
anyone has any ideas on where this monstrosity should go, let me know. I'll be eternally   
grateful. Now, if anyone's still reading, on to the story!  
  
Draco (Voldemort) grinned cruelly. "Excellent. Excellent," he repeated, rubbing his   
hands together in satisfaction. "Now, to mark you as my own." He raised his wand,   
muttered something unintelligible, and Neville felt a searing pain in his arm. He quickly   
pulled up the sleeve of his robe, and was greeted by the sight of a skull and snake etching   
itself blackly into his flesh.   
  
Despite himself, tears started in his blue eyes. He blinked furiously, refusing to let   
Voldemort see. God knew that Voldemort already knew most of his weaknesses. He   
didn't need to add crybaby to the list.   
  
What have I done? he thought, rubbing his throbbing arm. Was the price too high? His   
heart sank. He felt like he had just sold his soul to the Devil. He wistfully wondered if   
he'd ever be happy again. He realized now, after the fact, that his life really wasn't   
THAT bad. Sure, he was a renowned klutz, and had a 5 second memory, but he had no   
real enemies (except Draco Malfoy, but he's just about everyone's enemy). Now, since   
he was a servant of the Dark Lord, everything was turned upside down. All his friends   
were his enemies, and his enemies were his friends. He lifted his wary eyes to Draco   
(Voldemort)'s face. "Now what?" he asked timidly.  
  
"I need some proof that you're loyal to me," Voldemort said coolly. "Kill that youngest   
Weasley boy."  
  
From somewhere in the depths of his being, Neville found some strength. "Never," he   
said, lifting his chin in defiance. He half-expected to be killed, and he wasn't that sorry   
about it. He felt like the world's biggest traitor. He closed his eyes, waiting for the green   
light to end his troubles, but the only sound Voldemort made was a deep sigh. Whether of   
contentment or disappointment, Neville didn't know.  
  
"I'm glad to see that your loyalties aren't that shallow," Voldemort said reflectively. "If I   
had patience, I might appreciate it more. But as it is, I still need some proof,   
Longbottom." He waved his wand a bit. A tree appeared before Neville's startled eyes.   
"Do you know what this is, Longbottom?"  
  
Neville shook his head.   
  
"It's the Tree of Life," Voldemort said. One apple from this tree confers immortality   
upon the eater. Right now, it's just a sapling. If you were to eat an apple from it right   
now, you'd only live a day longer. But, soon, it's going to be a full-fledged tree, and I   
need someone to care for it. I don't trust any of my followers with it. But you,   
Longbottom, are essentially a good person."  
  
Neville began to smile weakly.  
  
Voldemort held up his hand. "No, Longbottom, it's not a compliment. Good people are   
predictable. They won't take what's not theirs. You're good with plants, and you're a   
good person. You're the logical choice. All you have to do is tend the tree and keep quiet   
about our arrangement. You don't even have to kill that Weasley boy."  
  
"Thank you," Neville said simply.   
  
"Neville!" called Hermione. "Where are you?" Just as she turned the corner, Voldemort   
disappeared.   
  
"I've been looking for you everywhere!" she said, snuggling against his chest.   
  
Neville shyly put his arms around her. "Why?" he whispered in her ear.   
  
"It's dinner time. C'mon," she said tugging playfully at his arm. He made sure the mark   
was well covered as he obediently followed her.  
  
  
As the weeks passed, things again fell into a routine for our hero. He went to class,   
tended the tree (he got there by "borrowing" Harry's cloak), spent a lot of time with his   
adoring girlfriend, and best of all, got frequent owls from his parents. Neville savored   
every one of those letters, and took none of his time with Hermione for granted.  
  
The day finally came when it was time to harvest the apples. Voldemort had given strict   
instructions on what he was to do. Pick them, carefully put them in the special bag he had   
been given, and directly give them to none other than the Dark Lord himself. Simple   
instructions for a simple boy, Voldemort had said scornfully. Neville's cheeks burned a   
dull red, but he said nothing. He waited until everyone was asleep, took Potter's cloak,   
and stole out of Hogwarts. The tree was planted just on the edge of the property, hidden   
among some scrubby looking bushes. He quickly picked the apples, and ran back to his   
bed. He had to give them to Voldemort tomorrow after Potions.   
  
With every step he took that next day, the apples got heavier. Was he doing the right   
thing? If Voldemort ate one, no one, not Harry, not even Dumbledore, would be able to   
kill him. Despite the fact that he had the Dark Mark, Neville was still no more evil than   
his girlfriend, and the act that he was about to commit weighed heavily on his mind. He   
messed up worse than usual in Potions, and Snape took an unheard-of 275 points away   
from Gryffindor after his 7th cauldron bottom broke, sending his Shrinking Potion all   
over Snape's feet. Neville decided that it was a good time to leave before anything worse   
happened. Voldemort was waiting for him. He held out his hands, ready to take the   
apples.   
  
Neville clutched the bag tightly to his chest. "I'm ... I'm ... sorry. I j-j-just c-can't," he   
stuttered.   
  
"What?!?!?" shouted Voldemort, outraged.   
  
The entire Potions class ran out into the hallway. When they saw Voldemort, many   
screamed, some fainted, some ran away. When the panic died down, the only ones left   
were Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. All were open mouthed at the   
scene before them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were shocked.   
  
"Neville!?! You work for VOLDEMORT!!" Harry shouted. "WHY!" He would have   
continued talking, but he had to hold Ron back.   
  
"You dirty, rotten, sneaking ... traitor!!" Ron snarled, trying to free himself from Harry's   
grasp(he probably would have said worse, but this is a G story, and I'm trying to keep it   
that way).   
  
"Oh, Neville," Hermione sighed, her eyes filling with tears. Neville was able to take Ron   
and Harry's reprimands, but Hermione's gentle sigh cut him to his heart.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said. "But, my parents, they're back. And Voldemort gave me you,   
Hermione."  
  
"No, he didn't," she said, confused. "It was completely my choice."  
  
"You may say that, it's really some spell," Neville said doubtfully.  
  
"It is not! I liked you way before your parents were released from St. Mungo's."  
  
"Is this true?" Neville asked Voldemort.   
  
"What is this? This isn't some cheesy fanfic where you guys can discuss your love lives   
during a life or death fight. Keep your minds on this issue at hand! Now, Longbottom,   
hand over the apples!" Voldemort drew forth his wand to further convince Neville.  
  
"Do you promise me that you're telling me the truth?" Neville asked of Hermione over   
his shoulder. She nodded wordlessly.  
  
"Then, Voldemort," Neville said, "you tricked me. Therefore, I owe you nothing, and   
these apples aren't yours." He clutched the bag tightly.   
  
"I will have that fruit, boy, even if I have to kill you," Voldemort said menacingly.   
  
"I'd like to see you try it," said a voice from behind Neville. Harry walked until he was   
shoulder-to-shoulder with Neville.   
  
Voldemort smiled. "That will just make this that much more satisfying, Potter."  
  
Hermione nudged Ron. "Let's go. They need us." Ron, eyes wide with fear, nodded, and   
they took their places beside Neville too.   
  
"Four of you. Well, it's almost a fair fight," mocked Voldemort.   
  
They all pulled their wands out. "Are you ready to die for your treachery, Longbottom?"   
asked Voldemort.   
  
"I committed no treachery," Neville replied, his voice shaking.   
  
"Very well, then. Prepare yourselves."  
  
"Hermione, I love you," Neville whispered.  
  
"I love you, too," she whispered back. She kissed his quickly on the cheek.  
  
"Aack! Enough of that!" screeched Voldemort, covering his eyes with his hands. "Let's   
begin!"  
  
And so it did. The curses flew thick and heavy, but our four plucky heroes were very   
good at dodging them.   
  
Harry managed to hit Voldemort with the Funucularus curse. Neville stood up to cheer   
him on, when Voldemort, enraged, hit him with the Cruciatus Curse right in the chest. He   
fell to the ground hard, and the last thing he heard were his own screams.  



End file.
